


Time For Bed

by Oscarwildes



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Beauty and the Beast AU, Bill and Georgie are Princes and are actually part of a fairytale, Bill is the beast but he doesn't get turned into a beast, It's too long to explain just read it, M/M, Set in a weird mix of the 1800s and 1900s, Stan is Belle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 00:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12783288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oscarwildes/pseuds/Oscarwildes
Summary: After his father gets held captive in a house that is part of a fairytale which he's been obsessing over for as long as he can remember, Stan finds himself at the hands of a cursed Prince with a peculiar obsession of his own.(Beauty and the Beast AU with some major twists and changes)[Abandoned, I guess]





	Time For Bed

**Author's Note:**

> So, my first idea was to make a sort of gothic horror Beauty and the Beast AU but who knows what will happen. I swear all your questions about the whole fairytale story and what kind of curse happened will be answered at some point during the story. [Stan's parents are loosely based on the book. They're nice people.] [Did not proofread, was not beta'd because I'm an idiot]

‘Once upon a time, on the outskirts of Derry, Maine, a young Prince named William Denbrough and his younger brother George lived in a castle the townsfolk had dubbed Neibolt for the house was hidden so deep into the woods only Neibolt road could lead you to its entrance. Whilst on a daily stroll in the woods while their mother and father were away, Prince George mysteriously disappeared and was never to be found again. Broken from the lost of his little brother, Prince William became mad with grief, convincing himself his brother was still alive in the woods. Many tried to help, but the Prince only sought information that could lead him and him alone to George and blatantly refused offers to search the woods and his blessing to compile testimonials. 

‘But then one fall’s night, a man with hair red as fire came to the castle holding a yellow cloak identical to the one George had been wearing on the night of his disappearance claiming having information on the missing child’s whereabouts. He offered Prince William the cloak only if he were to accept his help, and furious at the offer, the Prince accused the man of having taken his brother, and turned the man away, closing the heavy doors behind him. What followed terrified Prince William; the doors opened by themselves to reveal the cloak floating in the air and, as though the wind had pushed it, violently made its way inside the castle to stop before William. A faint voice echoed through the castle warning its inhabitants, for punishment, they had been hit with a curse. 

‘This curse had turned all of William’s closest friends into impotent states, leaving the Prince being the only human residing the home. And the cloak the man had left was no ordinary cloak, for it was enchanted. The yellow pigment in the fabric would fade to grey until Prince William’s twenty-first year. If he could accept another’s help and let himself be helped by the time the cloak turned to grey, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain helpless for all time. As the years passed, Prince William gave up, and lived a life of despair and loneliness.’

Andrea Uris carefully closed the small leather-bound book resting on her lap, the small boy by her side stirring uncomfortably under the sheets as the candles glowed around the room. She knew he was itching to say it, not once had he not said it after the first time she’d pulled the book out of the library and lulled him to sleep with the tale. 

‘Mama, do you believe Prince William really existed?’

And there it was.

Hearing her son express the same sentiment of wonder every time she finished the story always made her heart burst with joy. Unlike the other children in Derry, Stanley never believed in the magical and fantastic themes found in the stories they’d hear from their parents, but rather thought they were in fact all based on an element of truth. This truth, Stan found, was hidden in the corners of the town’s library in bulky dusty books he couldn’t lift by himself. He’d flip through the delicate pages of handwritten Derry history to find a name or event similar to the ones his parents told him at night. There were some cases he was able to resolve, like the one about the giant talking turtle (it didn’t talk: a small child had inexplicably found a turtle near the river, and as people around didn’t pay his discovery any attention and continued their walks and conversation, the girl mistook their talking for words coming from the turtle) and the one with the red rubber balloons (when the first balloons arrived in Derry, a murderer had used red balloons as a signature, leaving one attached to each body he’d killed, and residents had sworn seeing red balloons elsewhere - places where they shouldn’t be, which turned out to be due from water poisoning when a body was found decapitated in a nearby river), but Neibolt castle and the Denbrough family had left no trace of possible existence on any document on which Stan could get his hands on. 

This bothered him greatly because, after all, if he had been able to find out the events on which most tales were based, this one shouldn’t be an exception. It couldn’t be an exception. Prince William and Prince George were alive and missing, he just needed to prove it. His mother found his attitude endearing, proving once again that her son was capable of more than what this small town had to offer. From time to time, she helped him with his research - which he favoured over the little school studies he had - by carrying the heavy books and finding abandoned places on maps, but never fed his imagination and curiosity about the tale of Neibolt house.

‘Of course not, darling, they’re just fairytales.’ She would always respond with the same answer, Stan groaning in disbelief and snuggling closer to his mother for warmth; winter was a dreaded time in the Uris household, Stanley never being warm enough to stop shivering. The poor child was often bedridden during the coldest weeks of winter with tea by his side and cloths drenched in hot water resting on his forehead and wrapped around his hands.

‘But Mama, what if he-’ Andrea laughed, smiling fondly at him.

‘If the name William Denbrough ever reaches my ears, I promise you’ll be the first person I tell.’ 

Stanley accepted defeat, though, it wasn’t really a failure. One day, he’ll come running home and his mother will take him in her arms and tell him there’s been words of a boy found in the woods (Prince George) and Stan will whisper a soft ‘I told you’ as the biggest mystery he’s ever faced will come to an end. And that he could live with. It would be the perfect fairytale ending. If such things happened.

Doing what she always did before he went to sleep, she brushed the curls away from his face and pressed a soft kiss against his forehead. Andrea knew her boy had been tired all day and had tried staying up to question her once more as if every time he asked made a difference, had an impact on him and the flow of the universe, that their lives are in his tiny hands, that if he forgets to ask, George will truly be dead. His eyes drifted shut after a long battle with sleep, arms relaxing their grip on the small knitted doll cradled against his chest.

‘Goodnight, my little prince,’ she whispered. 

And with that, she blew the candles out before leaving the room and joining her husband in the living room (which was in fact an open living room where the kitchen took most of the place and the sitting area was too small to be properly defined as a living room) who sat in one of the few chairs they owned that weren’t in need of repair. The chair she chose to sit on was made of a stained oak, a long lasting and strong wood but not as beautiful as the mahogany currently occupied by Donald with its deep red hues that paired perfectly with the furniture she’d seen in her dreams. It wasn’t her favourite, nor were most of the furniture inside the flat, but during times like this, she couldn’t afford the price to care.

When she walked in, Donald sent her a questioning look to which she replied with a short nod. They always did this after one of them would tuck Stanley into bed. The stare and the nod. It was a confirmation that Stan had, once again, asked the infamous question. It had infiltrated their nightly routine against their will; Stan’s stubbornness about the tale made them divert from the parenting path they’d so often talked about before having the boy. Nothing drastically changed, only now they’re aware of Stan’s place in the world with his different way of thinking and… well, they stopped expecting a marriage and grandchildren from him. They’d never asked, and Stanley had never told them, but deep down, they knew he wasn’t meant for an ordinary life, even if not wanting or preferring a woman’s company was the only difference. Their neighbour’s daughter had wed at twenty and Stanley was expected to do the same as every other child in this town. Andrea and Donald disagreed with this way of thinking - the traditionalism, the need for a segregation of all that could be put apart, hated - not wanting for their child to do anything he wouldn’t want to. With this in mind, they tried their best saving the most pennies they could for him to have a chance to leave the town and explore new worlds where he’d fit in. Not many left, and those who did never came back. 

‘Have you ever thought of forging documents?’ Mr. Uris asked with a hint of mischievousness. 

She huffs at him. ‘Of course I have, but it would be useless hard work. He’d find out.’

‘We must do something about it before he’s too late. He’s still young, there’s still no harm in him being a bit odd, but what about when he turns thirteen? And sixteen? And twenty!’ He unintentionally rasped a bit too harshly. He couldn’t help but be worried for his boy. His sweet little boy who'd exceeded every single expectations and defied every single worry he had about having a child, his sweet little boy who proved him having a child was the most beautiful thing that could happen to someone, his sweet little boy who made his life more bearable every day just by existing. But Andrea, the only light he’s ever had guiding him through the darkest of times, replied with ‘Then we’ll do something about it then. And until then, all we can do is protect him for what’s to come.’ 

Little did Andrea Uris know, she wouldn’t be able to protect him from the darkness that would settle upon her son on this very day in ten years time.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this to the Penny Dreadful, Anna Karenina (2012), and Crimson Peak scores 
> 
> If you have any questions, my Tumblr is barrykoeghan


End file.
